Morsmordre
by purplecloak9
Summary: One-Shot. The last two major events in the life of Merope Gaunt.


The woman walked, conspicuously, down the filthy streets of London. She didn't bother looking over her shoulder though it was quite dark, and her protruding belly signaled she was very far along in a pregnancy. Her clothes barely deserved the title, so dirty and torn they were. Neither were they clothes anyone on the street, had there been other people, would recognize. She wore no dress or sweater, but a set of shabby black robes. Her cloak had many holes towards the bottom, and the seat was worn, but it was fastened at her neck with a silver clasp that seemed to signal regality lost. Indeed, she must have at one time been well-off, because her robes and cloak were of a high quality. They were not, however, made in her own lifetime, leaving any bystander with the impression that either the clothes did not belong to her, or she had inherited them from a deceased relative some substantial amount of years her senior.

Quite alone, she walked through the streets at a slow and unsteady pace. Her burden, and there really was only one – her unborn child – added to her difficulty walking plenty, and she was gasping for breath by the time she reached her destination.

The building she had approached was located on a street which was usually filled with passerby, but the late hour, or perhaps her own will, had frightened everyone away. She moved purposefully to the door. Over it, a sign hung on moldy wood. It read, "The Leaky Cauldron." Had a person walked past it not of the woman's breed, they would not have been able to see it, nor her since she was standing in such close proximity to the building.

Countenance cold and unyielding, she opened the door and crossed the threshold.

The Leaky Cauldron was the dingiest sort of pub. An old barkeep sat on a stool in the corner snoring, his feet propped up against the wall. There was no one else in the room. To the woman's right was a staircase, presumably leading to whatever accommodations were available for lodgings. That was not what she was after, because she had no gold to rent a place for the night. Indeed, she had no money of any kind. The only currency available could be found in three forms.

One, simply, would be a lady's charms. Unfortunately, the woman was not in anyway pleasing to the eye. Her face was gaunt, with none of the plumpness marking a healthy female. Her hair was wiry and her general air was one of unpleasantness. And her cock-eyed expression had left more than one person open mouthed at the sight.

The second currency, perhaps a little more realistically, at her disposal was the silver locket hanging around her neck. It was hidden by the cloak, and very precious to her. A family heirloom, she nonetheless was feeling more and more desperate to unburden herself of it in exchange for anything – food, money, shelter. She was hoping to find a fair price on it, which is where the third currency comes into account. The woman knew little of life outside of the place where she was born, but her life was such that she was no where naïve. Despite this, there was certain to be _some_ value in being alone and with child.

She walked through the tavern and through another door, into a dark, grimy alleyway.

A brick wall was apparently of particular interest to her, because she stood and examined it for many minutes. Eventually – after looking around several times – she reached into her robes and shakily pulled out a thin piece of wood. It was a wand. Poorly made to begin with and not taken care of, the wood was chipped and dirty, and her fingers held it with an uncertainty that implied rare use. Her fingers were worn as though she was familiar with manual labor – particularly dishwashing. She didn't have much nail, and the edges were rough.

She took the end of the wand and gently tapped it against the wall in an unfamiliar pattern. She paused a moment, and the bricks in the wall began to rearrange themselves, leaving an opening in the alley into Diagon Alley.

She had not been there before, truth be told she had rarely left her home on the outskirts of a little village called Little Hangleton, but it was perhaps an innate knowledge for her to gain entrance into the place with the most concentrated magical force in the area. Tramping around the streets of London was not her first choice, but then, her wanderings of late had not been driven by choice, or need, but simple grief. Her losses were many, but she did not dare dwell on them until it was the end – and the end she knew would come quite soon.

She followed the dingiest path of cobblestones, which led into the outskirts of the Alley, and turned left at a haggard looking sign which read, "Knockturn Alley". She followed the narrow path, now holding lightly onto her stomach with both of her hands, the wand already long since stowed away in her robes. Oddly enough it wasn't for safe keeping; rather it seemed she hoped that if she kept her attention diverted from the wand it might disappear altogether.

A homeless woman was curled up against a drainage pipe asleep, but other than that there was no one in the alleyway. It was very late or very early, whichever you wanted to call it, and not many shops were even open. The few that were never had lights on anyway, for stealth. Ever since the fall of Grindlewald there had been a lessening of dark magic in Europe, and there was a different feeling in the air, even around a place as ominous as Knockturn Alley.

She knew her destination and walked down the cobbled street until she came to a shop which was, though not by much, cleaner than the ones around it. It was called Borgin and Burkes.

Inside the dimly lit room were many objects the girl was unfamiliar with. An ornate mirror was mounted on the wall behind the help desk, and the numerous bookshelves held trinkets her sense told her were probably highly dangerous. She didn't spare them a second glance, instead going up to the counter and hesitantly ringing the brass bell.

Caractacus Burke strode into the room from the back door, which apparently housed his private quarters. A placating smile already firmly in place by the time he cleared the threshold, he was unable to lower his subservient mask for a few seconds. But upon looking the girl up and down, from her cockeyed stare to her swollen belly, his pleasant smile turned into a smirk.

"You'll find no charity here," he said gruffly, already heading back to the door.

"No charity, missir. But I 'ave a pretty locket to sell. In me family fer generations, I's spect," she muttered, head down.

"Well then, let's see. Give it here," he turned round and held out his hand. She hastily unfastened her cloak and took the chain from around her neck. She held it out to him, and let the silver slip into his hand.

His eyes widened briefly behind his fringe of greasy brown hair, but he concealed his look of surprise before the girl could pick up on it. His thumbs caressed the 'S' on the front of the locket, and his mind was already calculating the prospects he had for selling it at enormous profit. The locket disappeared into the pocket.

"I've seen better," he said sternly. "But I suppose I can take it off your hands." He rummaged around in the till, taking out a handful of coins and shoving them across the counter. With one last look of disdain, he swept from the room.

Meanwhile, the girl still had not moved. She was regarding the coins on the table with a mixture of anxiety and fear. She took the coins – there were ten of them, and golden – and slipped them into her pocket. She gave the room a last fearful look and scurried back onto the cobbled alleyway.

####

A few months later found the girl hunched over on a cot at an orphan home, her thin frame cowered and shaking with contractions. An older woman by the name of Mrs. Cope attended the girl's bedside, wiping at her filthy forehead with a damp cloth. It came away blackened.

"Dear girl! Where have you been living, a chimney?"

The pain eased for a second, but the girl didn't answer. Her shoulders were slumped and her eyes closed. She made no sound except for the brief puffs of her shallow breathing.

"Push now, dear, and we'll have this baby out in a jiffy," said the plump woman.

"I 'ope 'e takes after his papa," the girl said, speaking aloud for the first time.

"Do you think it's going to be a boy?" asked Mrs. Cope, looking at the crown skeptically.

"I know 'es a boy. He'll be named for his papa, and mine. Tom Marvolo Riddle."

Mrs. Cope raised an eyebrow at the name. "Marvolo? Is that Scottish?"

But the girl had retreated into silence. She gathered her last bit of strength, meager as it were, and gave one final push. She finally let out a frail scream, which was promptly drowned out by the wails of her new baby boy.

Mrs. Cope cut the cord, and went into the bathroom holding the pink baby, taking care while she washed him. It was ten minutes before she walked back into the private room she had granted the pregnant girl, and when she did she was greeted by the patroness of the orphanage, a Mrs. Susan Knightly.

Susan gave Mrs. Cope a sad smile. "I'm afraid she's gone, Holly. The poor thing's dead."

Mrs. Cope sighed, looking down at the boy in her arms. "And I never even got her name."

"He'll live here, I suppose."

"Yes, yes, there isn't anything else to be done. She never gave any indication the father knows about her condition or where he lives. She gave a name, though. She named him before."

"I'll get the other children bedded down. Gwenie wanted a look at the baby and couldn't sleep, but I suppose she can have a look at him tomorrow. Do you think he'll survive on milk?"

"I don't see why not," replied Mrs. Cope. "I don't imagine she had much milk in her anyway. Poor, skinny thing."

"I'm headed upstairs," Susan said. "Happy Christmas."

"Happy Christmas," said Mrs. Cope. "And Happy Christmas to you, dearie. You'll make a handsome man some day, I hope, Tom Marvolo Riddle."


End file.
